Silver Cross survived the fire?”
“What fire?”
“The one near Pudding Lane.”
“Pudding Lane? All the way down there by the bridge, inside the wall? I wouldn’t know nothing about that. I don’t go down there. We always have fires in London, good sir. Too many candles.”
“You’d know this fire,” Julian says pensively. “There won’t be a house left standing between Temple Bar and London Bridge. Pardon me, I’ve been traveling so long, I’ve lost track of my days.” Maybe he’s wrong about the year. He’s never been good with dates. What a failing to have when dates are of the essence. Cromwell, Puritans, beheadings, republic, Charles I, Charles II, when was the Glorious Revolution? Was the Great Fire of London before it or after? A little knowledge is an awful thing—
“It’s a Tuesday. Second week in July. We just finished the beer festival for the Feast of Saints.” The Baroness smiles. “That was very good for business.”
“I’m sure.” Julian shifts in his seat. “Can I get a small advance on my salary so I can buy myself a wardrobe befitting a tavern keeper? You said we needed fresh flowers. Perhaps I can take a walk to the market. Is Covent Garden open?” He wants to walk to Clerkenwell. He needs to see what’s become of the life he once lived with her.
The Baroness agrees to an advance. “Usually I send Ilbert to the market, but frankly, he has appalling taste in flowers. He always manages to get the ugliest ones. When you see Mallory, remind her to lend you something to wear. And tell her Gasper is here. The girl needs to be told everything three times. He’s been waiting an hour.” Gasper is a skeletal man in the corner by the open door, a stinking man in rags with flies buzzing around him, his head tilted and trembling.
As Julian walks up the main stairs, he hears the Baroness berating a humpbacked imp. “Ilbert,” she yells. “How many times must I tell you—it’s against the law to wash the entrails of pigs in the local waters!”
“I’m not the only one that breaks the laws, madam. The alley is slippery with refuse. It’s hard to carry the carcass to a less local water.”
“Oh, Holy Helpers, Ilbert, you are but an arsworm! You know Scotland Yard is next door! One of them clappers saw you. He told me you was throwing coal ashes right into Parliament Street. Have you no mind, scoundrel? We’re in front of the Palace of Whitehall, the residence of our king! You can’t keep breaking the laws of men.”
“But all the men is dead, madam. You said so yourself.”
“The few that are left will stone you to death, you scoundrel! I will celebrate when that day comes. Until then, stop mouthing off to me and go sweep the stones outside, as decreed by the Commissioner for Streets and Ways. And stop hooping the barrels on the sidewalk and sawing timber on the street. I can’t afford another fine because of you.”
“Where would you like me to saw the timber, madam? In the palace gardens?”
“You are an annoyance and a disorder, Ilbert, in desperate need of reforming. They will dispose of you with the ashes, dust and dirt, and I shall have nothing whatsoever to say about it except hallelujah.”
Tucked into a dormered corner on the second floor, on the other side of the house from his favorite room, Julian’s quarters are spacious and sunny. From his two open windows he can see the eastern Thames, curving toward Blackfriars, toward the direction of the slate-colored Globe, he can hear the bells of a hundred churches. His room has a four-poster bed with a heavy canopy, an intricately carved armchair, a walnut cupboard, a small table under the windows where he can eat or write, a wardrobe where he can hang his clothes once he gets some, and a washing station in the corner by the fireplace that includes not only a basin, but also a bathtub with a stone hearth. He could use a bath after last night’s steamy banquet. Perhaps the girls could come and wash him as they had so kindly offered.
In the desk he finds a quill with a bottle of ink. Julian remembers Devi’s instruction to count the days. Opening the bottle of ink, he dips the quill into it, pulls up the sleeve of his robe, and with the quill tip punctures the inside of his forearm, near his wrist, tapping a dot of ink into the wound. One.
When he turns around, a girl stands silently in the doorway, towels and sheets in her hands, her expression wary, her brown gaze on his arm. It’s Mallory.
“I can explain,” he says, putting the quill away.
“No need, sire.” He can barely hear her voice.
“I’m marking the days.” He steps toward her.
“Aren’t we all. May I make up your room?” Her gaze is on the bed.
“Mallory …”
The girl can’t look into his face. It’s either shyness or embarrassment. She stares at the periphery of his ear, at a slice of his beard, at his black robe, at anything but him. When he tries to touch her, she flinches from him. Holding her by the flesh of her arm, he lifts her chin to him. His eyes meet hers.
Mallory is his girl.
Julian fills to the brim with the wine of his ravished heart. He searches her face for a flicker of familiarity, of recognition and finds himself faintly disappointed that he can’t find any. She doesn’t fight him or move away. In her deep brown eyes there’s a hint of morning shame at the memory of their shameless night. Her full red lips are slightly parted.
“May I make up your room, sire … please?” She averts her gaze.
He watches her as she scurries and hurries in her maid’s clothes, a long black skirt, a gray workman-like bodice, a black apron. That is not what she looked like last night, sumptuous and inflamed. Her hair, once so wonderfully down, is tied up and hidden in a white bonnet. She is less hourglassy than Mary was, perhaps because she toils all day and has less to eat. And whereas Mary was a newborn soul that hadn’t learned to smile, this Mallory doesn’t smile perhaps because there’s less to smile about. Her delicate life is rough with work. She is efficient. In five minutes, the bed is made up, some ale is in a silver decanter, yellow lilies are by the open window. Julian condemns the yellow lilies but says nothing. The girl doesn’t know they stand for falsehood. He’ll replace them when he goes out, perhaps with red tulips for desire.
“Will that be all, sire?”
“The Baroness said you might have some clothes for me.”
“Yes, pardon me. I forgot.” She returns with some faded breeches, a frayed tunic, and a pair of old shoes. “If there’s nothing else …”
“Oh, but there is.” He reaches for her hand.
She retreats. “I’m very busy, sire. I’m not … I’m the maid, that’s all I am.”
“That’s not all you are.”
“Last night was an aberration.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You heard the Baroness. Me, Carling, and Ivy got ten rooms to clean and the downstairs to sweep and get ready for lunch. There’s only three maids cleaning, and you saw, the Baroness is already upset with me.”
“I don’t much care what she thinks.”
“I don’t have that luxury, not to care what she thinks, sire.”
From the floor below, Julian hears Tilly calling Mallory’s name. He tuts. “You’re making me forget everything, Mallory. The Baroness said someone named Gasper is downstairs for you.”
Mallory hardens.
“Who’s Gasper, your father?”
“No, sire, I don’t think my mother knew who my father was.”
“So Gasper could